


To Enjoy You

by eternalsojourn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Deal with Death, Demon Deals, M/M, Other, Prostitution, Sex by bargain, non-romantic, this is explicit but possibly not as dark as you might imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7745962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsojourn/pseuds/eternalsojourn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean never dreams Death will actually make a deal. And he can't imagine what he has to offer Death in exchange for saving Sammy's soul.</p><p>Death, of course, has his own perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Enjoy You

Dean shifts in his seat and spins his paper coffee cup around. He requested this meeting but now that he’s here it feels like he’s cleared his throat in a dark auditorium only to have a spotlight turned on him. 

He braves a glance up to the eyes fixed on him from across the table, but quickly looks back down at his fingers fiddling with his cup. No, not an auditorium. More like a lab. And he’s there with his innards splayed out all neat and orderly for cataloguing. Suddenly he doesn’t much feel like drinking his coffee.

“Don’t waste my time. You called me here.” The irritation in Death’s voice is low-grade, like he can’t even muster the interest to express his disdain.

Dean wonders how he’s even been successful, and why the hell he’d thought this would be a good idea in the first place. But the thoughts are fleeting as he scrambles to think of a way to begin that doesn’t sound pathetic or flat out insane.

“I need to ask a favour,” he says. Making deals with crossroads demons was never this hard or awkward.

Death simply twitches an eyebrow ever so slightly, conveying in that tiny movement that Dean is stating the obvious and should get on with it.

Dean clears his throat. “Right. Well. It’s Sammy. His soul. Lucifer’s got it and we need it back. I thought.” He clears his throat again. “Well you could bring it back.” Keeping his head down he glances up from under his brow, and this time he really looks.

Death, for all his weary impatience, appears to be in no hurry. Well, he does have eternity, Dean thinks. Still, his stare is unnerving. It has a way of making Dean feel like his own perception of himself is all wrong somehow.

“What could you possibly offer me,” Death measures out each word, “that could make me consider such a request?” The question sounds rhetorical. 

But Death’s gaze doesn’t move and suddenly Dean thinks, maybe it isn’t rhetorical. Maybe the request was outrageous enough to make him curious. The thing is, Dean has gambled big on this one. Huge. With a crossroads demon he’d have offered his own soul in trade. Death was going to get him in the end either way, so it’s true, Dean has nothing to offer.

“Look, I know this is… unusual,” Dean begins. “Whatever I’ve got. My soul. My life. Just —” Dean swallows and squeezes his eyes closed, lips pursed. “Just bring Sammy’s soul back.”

The silence is full, but with what Dean has no idea. He’s made similar offers before, and contrary to Sam’s assumption, Dean doesn’t actually relish the thought of dying. He’d rather not, if he can avoid it. But between him and Sam, well, it’s obvious. One of them is worth something, out there in the world. The normal world. 

“Do you have any idea how many lives I’ve taken?” 

That is definitely rhetorical, and it doesn’t look good for Dean.

Death’s face becomes more animated, though “more” is a value Dean has to reassign after the unprecedented stoniness he’s witnessed on this ancient creature.

“Every soul, every spark of genius or malice, from the beginning of time, everyone who’s ever made a difference and the untold numbers who’ve made nary a ripple. All of them winked out at my touch.” Death, for all his gravity and stony indifference, is still inexplicably, compellingly, elegant. “This is one little planet in one tiny solar system in a galaxy that’s barely out of its diapers. I’m old, Dean. Very old. So I invite you to contemplate how insignificant I find you.”

Dean sits, duly chastised. He should leave. But something tickles at the edge of his brain. Something in the way Death speaks. No. Something not there. No dismissal. Death has not said “No.”

“Okay… but. You’re here, right. You haven’t left yet, so...” Dean stills his movements, still looking at his hands. “There is something I could give you. There must be.” He looks up, meeting Death’s eyes.

***

It isn’t worth his time, though time is something Death has plenty of. It isn’t worth his attention then, this one plea from this one soul for one other puny soul. What do they matter? They’ll both be his in the end. Life trundles on until it doesn’t, and Death keeps his side of the bargain. He provides balance.

In all eternity, it can be easy to dismiss a single world, a single species, a single life. But every once in awhile, Death gets reminded to look at the details.

And this world has its redeeming qualities: small pleasures to be taken in the endless monotony of eternity. The way fried pickles start out warm and comforting, crispy and rich, but spark with sharp vinegar and the reminder of things green and fresh. The angels with their lofty ideas of fulfillment, of loyalty and ideology, they all pass eventually. Regimes rise and fall — even God’s. Trifling, all of it. Fleeting, inconsequential, and yet. He’s drawn to those sparks. And Dean.

That things that draw Death back into the world— they draw Dean too. The taste of pie (not to Death’s taste, but to each his own), the rumble of an engine, the touch of another person. Dean is in touch with the visceral quality of actually living. The messiness of it. He is a creature of his own flesh and senses. It’s… intriguing.

There’s a shift of skin when Dean swallows, and if he looks for a long moment, Death can see the pulse in Dean’s neck. Fleeting, yes. But a spark is appealing because it’s there and gone, isn’t it?

Death likes to indulge in a bit of life now and then. And here in front of him is an offer.

***

Dean swallows under Death’s scrutiny. He has an inkling of what they’re inching towards. He can see where Death’s gaze lands: on his throat, on his lips. His stomach flips but it’s far from the unpleasant pit he’s felt so many times before. It’s nerves and yes, fear as well. But it’s also relief because if Death has in mind what Dean thinks he has in mind, this is something Dean can do. 

“Anything,” Dean says when Death’s silence draws out. He licks his lower lip subtly but deliberately and watches Death watching him.

“Parameters,” says Death quietly. 

Dean’s mouth closes and he frowns.

“If we’re to have an agreement,” Death continues slowly, like he’s explaining to a child, “we need to set parameters. I can see that we have an agreement in principle. Now, we set the terms.”

“Right, right.” Dean takes a sip of his coffee, surprised that his hands don’t shake. “Well you’ve kinda got the upper hand, here.” A wry, crooked smile.

Death’s smile is an enigmatic thing. “You don’t know how far you’re willing to go.” It’s not a question.

And since they’re here and this is the sign-on-the-dotted-line moment, Dean figures he can take some time to consider. So he does.

He thinks about the minimum first: touching, kissing. Rubbing. That causes some trepidation, but nothing too terrifying to consider. But that’s one end of the spectrum. At the other…

Dean bumps up against one of the walls in his mind: the ones he’s built and reinforced to contain the memories of things he’s done, of pain he’s inflicted, of pleasures he wished he’d never experienced. He knows, without looking directly at it, the limits of what you can do to a person. A tiny part of him has a hazy sense that maybe this is his chance to atone. Whatever can be done to him, he can survive it, because this is Death in control and he doesn’t intend to take Dean at this time. Which is maybe worse but it wouldn’t be for an eternity, surely.

Parameters. Yeah, good idea.

“What,” he clears his throat. “What do you want?”

“To enjoy you,” Death says simply. 

Dean frowns.

“I’ve no interest in hurting you.”

“Ah. Good. Okay.” Dean wants to squirm and leave or hide or something because the specifics are too much. He’d really just rather get to the doing, but limits are important. “Okay, yeah. Then that’s the main one, I guess. And, uh.” Dean fidgets. “No items. You know. Just. Just bodies.”

“Yes,” Death is mercifully serious, his gaze steady and the bored impatience from earlier is completely gone. “Beyond that, what I want depends on how you react. So shall we say, no pain. And I will stop, if you wish it. But you must try. If I feel you haven’t tried, the deal is off.”

At first it sounds laughably easy and Dean almost wants to rejoice. But then he remembers that he actually has to do this thing, and do it right for Sammy’s sake, and he quells his inner celebration. But his half-maniacal laugh lives in his chest, nervous and shaky.

“Deal,” he says.

Suddenly he’s standing in darkness, a room with only the barest impression of walls and maybe some furniture. It’s black on black on black so it’s hard to tell. It’s also hard to tell where the light comes from, but there must be some because Death is standing right in front of him and Dean can see him just fine. 

Death moves forward, expression inscrutable, which is actually kind of comforting. Dean doesn’t know if he could handle large shifts from what he’s come to expect in this incredibly alien situation.

A hand reaches to touch Dean’s lips but he jerks away.

“Will I… if you touch me, don’t I die?”

Death’s patience is palpable. “Not if I don’t wish it.” He moves his fingers forward again and gentle fingertips brush Dean’s bottom lip. Dean lifts his chin a fraction but otherwise waits. He’s not sure what’s required of him here but he figures he’ll know when to join in.

For long minutes those fingers ghost over his skin: his lips, his chin, his cheek, his brow, and it’s kind awful how tender it is. Dean’s whole body is thrumming with energy. All the weight of his life, his regrets, his fears, all sit in his stomach and this focused attention feels like a judgement. But as much as it’s unpleasant to be so scrutinized, it’s a satisfying sort of pain, like the vice on his head after a night of too much whisky. Earned.

So he breathes and tries to steady himself because he promised he’d try. He closes his eyes and simply feels the touch as it moves down to the collar of his t-shirt, shifting it out of the way to trace the bone there. Death’s other hand comes up to his mouth and this time he opens his lips slightly. The hands still for a second, and Dean wonders if he’s actually managed to surprise Death. But the fingers move again and he turns his face to the touch. 

He doesn’t do much more than that, as Death moves on, hands drifting down over his neck, feeling his shoulders, gliding around his triceps. It gives Dean a sudden sense of himself as a person, a body, a single entity. He’s hit with the sudden recollection of what’s in front of him: the unfathomable age, the sheer vastness of Death’s existence. In all his dealings with angels and demons and all creatures in between, here is something bigger, outside of the drama, grander than all the things Dean deals with. Death’s existence stretches on before and after everything Dean knows, and Dean suddenly feels tiny, his struggles insignificant. He realizes with clarity that no amount of penitence will ever make up for what he did in Hell, but here, under the ministrations of Death Himself, it doesn’t matter. All of Dean’s mental acrobatics to reconcile his place in the world, all of the weight on his soul, everything shrinks down to a single, absurdly tiny point. This enormous power that takes everything in the end, is pointed at him. And it feels like gentle pressure across his stomach, like a warm palm sliding around his waist, like a surprisingly warm breath on his ear.

It’s then that he realizes what he needs to do. Nothing. What Death wants is exactly what he said, to enjoy him. And Dean just has to feel that, rather than endure it. So moving very deliberately, he lifts his shirt over his head and off, breathes deep, keeps his eyes closed, and feels.

***

Death sees the moment Dean settles in, and it’s as simply pleasurable as watching a butterfly’s wings unfold. With a palm resting on Dean’s chest he feels the tidal push-pull of breath. The pulse under his tongue tells of the insistent coursing of blood through Dean’s veins. He’s acutely aware of the body’s inexorable desire to continue despite spiritual and emotional pain. Death knows that he is uniquely positioned to appreciate life’s will despite its temporality.

And Dean. Dean responds to every touch, is hyper-aware of every point of contact, and is accepting it — enjoying it, even. Although that might be overstating matters. Perhaps. 

Death touches those lips again, this time received even further into Dean’s mouth, delicate tongue making tentative contact with his fingertips. Death, for the first time in an eternity, shudders. He slips his other hand around and down, dipping his hand into the waistband of worn jeans. Dean immediately undoes his belt, button, and zipper, and Death smiles. Stepping in closer and wrapping an arm around to pull Dean in, Death mouths under Dean’s ear, fluttering licks over delicate skin. He moves back to blow a soft gust of breath over the wetness he’s left there, just to watch Dean’s skin prickle up. Tiny hairs stand on end and and Dean’s breath catches.

Wanting more of that, Death presses his finger into Dean’s mouth, pleased when Dean latches onto it, and decides to leave it there for a luscious moment before removing it and dropping to draw a wet circle on Dean’s nipple. It’s not cold here, but Dean pebbles there too and Death strokes the hardened nub. Dean’s shoulders jitter on a shaky breath.

Death has words for Dean, but he leaves them unspoken. They are words in praise of beauty, of fragility, of strength and of the endurance of the spirit. They are about Dean but not for him, and while Dean has given himself over to the pleasure of experience, Death has no desire to break that fragile bubble.

The body beneath his hands softens and becomes more pliant the more Death explores. Gradually Dean’s breath and pulse quicken, his flesh taking on a light sheen. Death ghosts his mouth over Dean’s neck and jaw, but no more than that. Dean’s hands come to rest on Death’s hips, but do not explore, and that’s just as well. Watching the corporeal pleasure in Dean’s body is precisely as much as Death wanted, and he would prefer not to be reminded that his own body lacks such immediacy. 

As Dean breathes heavier, Death slides a hand inside his briefs, tumescent flesh confirming what Death already knows. Dean’s body is obviously itching to press up into the pressure, pre-thrusts flexing Dean’s muscles. Death doesn’t deny him, pressing a palm to the underside of Dean’s erection and beginning a steady pulse up and down. He wraps an arm more firmly around Dean to support him and presses his body to Dean’s side. His hand moves small patterns at the swell of Dean’s backside in firm, vital flesh.

Feeling Dean pressing up more insistently, Death wraps his hand and strokes, the vulnerability in his grasp utterly exquisite. He is accustomed to his touch taking life, not encouraging it, fostering it, teasing it to amplitude. Death decides to risk a little more, and moves up to Dean’s ear, licking it, kissing it, gusting warm across its shell-like contours. Dean utters a small grunt, tiny vocalizations on each breath as his body pulses in Death’s embrace. His thrusts get more frantic, less deliberate, and Death obliges with more pressure, quicker movements until Dean grabs hold of Death’s arm, hunches forward and utters an “ah” that sounds like it’s been torn from deep inside him.

Death holds him through the aftershocks, petting down Dean’s back as he shivers. It takes long moments and Dean’s weight is pleasing, resting as it is against Death’s body.

When at last Dean stills, Death releases his hold and steps back enough to put air between them.

Dean lifts his eyes, looking dazed but clear. “Was that enough?” he says.

Weary suddenly with the brevity of life’s pleasures, Death blinks. “Yes,” he says. He looks at Dean’s mouth but even with the picture in his head of Dean’s lips enclosing his finger, Death doesn’t lift his hand. Better to leave a perfect memory.

***

Between one blink and the next, Dean finds himself in the kitchenette of the motel he’d been staying at, Sam standing in front of him looking confused. With no time at all to process what’s happened, no way to transition from one feeling to the next, Dean surges forward and pulls Sam into his arms, a single hard slap on Sammy’s back with a closed fist in place of the words he doesn’t have.

***End***


End file.
